


Keeping a Clear Mind

by Morbidocity



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Drug Use, Hallucinations, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbidocity/pseuds/Morbidocity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a short drabble.   Warning; Drug use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping a Clear Mind

Sherlock is vaguely aware that this may not have been the best idea that he'd had. Normally, he only dabbled in the type of drugs that would keep his mind clear, focused. Normally, he only took the drugs that took the edges off, lifted him just a little higher but kept his mind at the same intelligence that it had always been at. It had been an unspoken rule of his for the longest time; no mind-impairing or altering drugs. This time he hadn't listened to himself. 

Fingers clutched at his hairline, eyes wide in his cupped hands as he leaned forward and rest his elbows on his knees. The room had been spinning, the walls 'breathing' and time itself seemed to be distorted. It was all highly illogical but his eyes would only continue to try to convince him that everything he was seeing was real no matter how his brain insisted that it was merely the trip. 

His pupils were fully blown, he could see that quite clearly in the reflection of the mirror none too far away; his hair a tousled mess and his skin deathly pale. His body was shaking, tremors wracking through it heavily and he couldn't seem to be able to stop them. A flash in the corner of his eyes and his fully blacked out iris' flicker over to meet it before he lets out a deep inhale of breathe and nearly stumbles out of the chair. Sitting on the couch opposite was the smoky apparition of Edgar Allan Poe and perched upon his shoulder was a raven as black as night whose feathers seemed to vaporize around it, It's haunting red eyes bore into Sherlock's soul and it let out a loud caw that made the detective flinch slightly. 

Hand pale as death, Poe extended it outwards to point behind Sherlock and after a moment's hesitation, he looked over his shoulder, the world swimming around his drug induced mind. There behind him is none other than the smirking figure of James Moriarty, just as deathly pale as the dead poet on his couch. The criminal's lips are twisted up into a sadistic smirk and, though Sherlock could not see the extent, the back of his head is bloody and raw from the exit wound of the bullet that had killed him. "Hello, love." He purrs and the voice is nothing short of eerie. It echoes, bouncing off the rippling walls and filling the room with a creepy atmosphere. 

Before Sherlock knows it, there's a smokey figure of a gun pointed to his head and just beyond it that evil smirk stays molded onto Moriarty's face. His finger squeezes the trigger and there's a loud bang followed by a bright flash of light before the gun seems to melt along with Moriarty's arm and the rest of his body, leaving nothing but twirling smoke in his place. 

Sherlock is breathing hard now, his heart beating heavily against his chest and sweat gathering at his brow. His pale fingers are gripping the chair's armrest tightly, clawing into the soft fabric and shaking. "No more." He whispers, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against the headrest. 

This is roughly where he's at when John finds him and all grocery bags are set aside without another moments thought, moving to the trembling detective and pressing a hand to his clammy forehead. There's a slight jolt and Sherlock's bright multi-toned hues flicker open to meet John's with the shaky characteristic of drugs. "John..." It's barely a whisper and far below normal tone and before he knows it, Sherlock has reached up with one hand and circled his long, slim fingers around John's wrist. 

"What drugs did you take this time?" John asks after a moment and Sherlock gestures with his free hand to a small bottle that lay on the table opposite. There is no description on the bottle, no name. It's only when he opens it and finds one more small strip of papery substance that John concludes to just what the drug was. "Acid?" A slight nod of Sherlock's head and a shaky inhale of breath. "Whatever happened to keeping your head clear?" 

When John had first moved in and Lestrade had initiated a drug's bust, John had thought for sure that Sherlock was a clean guy. He had been willing to fight tooth and nail for Sherlock's name on the matter and had been astonished when Sherlock had shot him a look that suggested otherwise. Later that evening, John had gone as far as to ask Sherlock about the drugs and had merely gotten an answer of, "Clears my mind. Helps me to think." 

There's something akin to fear in Sherlock's eyes now and it makes John wonder just what he had seen in his drug induced haze. With a heavy sigh, John sinks down into the little room left next to him and wraps an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. It's all odd, to see him like this; vulnerable and almost afraid but there is something privileging about it when Sherlock leans into him and rests his sweat slicked forehead against John's shoulder, his crazy curls tickling at John's neck.

"Where in the world did you even get the stuff?" John asks but he receives no response save for a half-hearted grunt, his cue to shut up and he does. John ceases his talking and instead rests his cheek on top of Sherlock's head. It would be a long night but no less fruitful than any other.


End file.
